


Midas' Gold

by kiasohma



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst and Humor, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Immortality, M/M, Reincarnation, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2018-10-20 11:22:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10661535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiasohma/pseuds/kiasohma
Summary: Grindelwald's curse aside, it wasn't a relationship meant to last. At least not in the magical world...and not until the passing of a century.OR: After the reveal of Grindelwald, Newt stayed in NYC to help find the real Percival Graves. After that the relationship between the two of them had developed to be more than that of MACUSA consultant and director. During a prisoner transfer gone wrong, Grindelwald escaped and had managed to hit Graves with a curse while killing Newt. Graves lives on to modern day, throwing himself into his work in MACUSA, his magical force draining but sustaining his life like a perversion of immortality. Many years passed, he still looks the same, as Picquery and many of his old aurors retire and new faces show up. Including Newt's.





	1. Tale as Old as Time...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The AU started off as an MV that I wanted to make dedicated to these two, and then it spiraled out of control making little baby plot bunnies that I just couldn't ignore lest I suffocate under them. Please enjoy the video for now, as I gradually update the story.


	2. Director Graves

President Samuel G. Quahog is not having a good day.

He’s been squinting himself blind over the tiny lines of reports for the past four hours and really isn’t this the job for someone else? Someone specific like, oh, the Director of Magical Security?

His eye twitches.

It’s a change of view, they said. President of MACUSA would be a good opportunity for you, they said. Do it for your father’s old friend, Madam Picquery, Sam; he would be so proud.

He really didn’t leave Boston for the great Big Apple in order to do more paper work, and while the familiarity of strangers shouting at you at 7am in the morning commute seemed to bring back the fond memory of the similar loud, in-your-face kind of energy to get through the day’s work, Quahog must admit that it did feel a bit different. Maybe it was the smell of urine native to NYC that he—.

“Your eye is doing that thing again, Sir.”

“What thing; my eye never does a thing.”

From the door, Timothy O’Brien is trying to look like he’s not properly smirking at him, knowing. The fucker. Quahog looks up at him to glare and back down at the report.

He groans. He has lost track of where he is. Not that the words have been registering to his brain since the morning, but O’Brien doesn’t have to know that. O’Brien never really has to know anything above his pay grade as a senior auror, really, but the menace has a way of knowing anyway.

And he shares, too. Making Quahog feel like an accomplice of sorts, in all the affairs of the departments (in every meaning of the term), the who’s who, and what’s what, and not to mention the ridiculous rumors that shouldn’t be floating around in the building filled with very grown and very adult _professional_ wizards and witches.

But that’s also what makes O’Brien a darn good auror in his books, despite the annoying tales and overbearing and judging eyes that always seems to say _I’m going to remember that and bring it back up later at the worst possible time for you_. Because if O’Brien can know all of that and more, it means that he’s the only wizard that can go far beyond more and know about _Percival Graves_.

Percival Graves who is supposed to be walking the halls, scaring and commanding respect out of the newly assigned fresh-out-of-the-academy junior aurors like wizards in high positions are wont to do. Percival Graves who is supposed to be the face of MACUSA along with President Quahog, standing tall and proud in his position as the Director of Magical Security. Percival Graves who is supposed to be going over these reports with Quahog instead of the little shit O’Brien—.

“Where is he?” Quahog finally caves, immediately prompting a wider grin on O’Brien’s face. “How is it that he’s closing all these damn major cases in a week and still have more to work on? Tell me, O’Brien, because I feel like I have invoked some kind of wrathful spirit upon me.” He pauses. “Is it because I asked him to take a vacation last month? It is, isn’t it?”

“Sir, please calm down—.”

“I walked in this morning and the pile doubled, O’Brien, doubled!”

“Well, there _have_ been more criminals and weird happenings turning up this holiday season for some reason or the other.”

“Okay, but don’t you consider it strange that it’s nearing the end of the year 2026 and things just ramp up like it’s nobody’s business? It’s like a foreshadowing of sorts, isn’t it?”

“Let’s not be superstitious, Sir—.”

“I am not being superstitious. I just think that it’s unnatural—and unfair—that there are many reports this significant that I _personally_ need to look over.” He lifts up the closest documents and starts to list them out one by one. “Beasts trafficking, gang wars, kidnappings…” One hand waves a report almost scandalously. “The very much illegal experiments on the combination of magic and No-Maj’s black market technology?!”

“Well, you know him, Sir, always the best for MACUSA.”

“Always—!”

He stops himself then, the atmosphere suddenly changing and the conversation taking a sour turn. Even O’Brien’s gaze seems to have shift downward a tad.

“Always…” the auror agrees with a nod.

Quahog sucks in a breath and lets out a long-suffering sigh. How one can get from a hundred to zero in terms of emotional well-being this fast, Quahog never knows. Outbursts and panics seem to be his dear friends these days, and the wave of regret and misery that usually follow is like an unwanted crowd.

Because the Percival Graves that he hears tales about growing up in a family of aurors, the one he wants to meet immediately once he was instated as the new MACUSA president and found out is _alive_ , is someone who does not walk the halls tall and proud. He is not standing along Quahog’s side as the face of anything. In fact he is not a face familiar at all in the ever so imposing Woolworth building.

The disappointment was not with the man himself. Director Graves, once Quahog did meet him, was still very much the powerful auror many came to know about in stories, with a striking figure and presence to be admired. The disappointment came when Graves shook his hand with a terse, polite smile, and an explanation that he had been and would continue to perform his duties as Director out in the field and to please not request him in the building except for the utmost dire of situations. He had then apologized for the inconvenience in a practiced manner—as if he had been doing this for many years with many a president that came before Quahog—then told him that he can trust his senior auror to be the main public liaison for that side of the directorship’s responsibilities.  

Then off he apparated, leaving a crackle and a subtle hint of wistfulness in his place. O’Brien introduced himself too that day, with a smile that also didn’t quite reach his eyes and a humor that didn’t quite reach one’s ears.

Throughout his first year of presidency, Quahog quickly learned that Graves is a respected name in MACUSA but is not something that most wizards and witches can explain reliably as to why. It seems to have been normalized as something that one just accepts—especially when the Director clearly does his job and does it well—and Quahog wasn’t sure if a spell is partially responsible for it or if it’s merely the apathy of the mass towards questioning authority or the past.

Only the older employees or aurors with a doggedness kind of curiosity really knows the whole story and have met or work with Graves one time or another, but even then they tend to clam up about him when pushed too far with questions. The sadness in their eyes stopped Quahog from asking after that.

It took him five years and a niffler in his office to become acquainted with Graves in a friendlier capacity. It took him another three to know the whole truth and see a smile that broke his heart.

But that’s twelve years ago and Quahog does not feel like or have the time to walk down memory lane today.

 “Tell Graves to meet me at that local coffee place tomorrow morning,” Quahog says finally. “There is something about this memory alteration tech in his report that’s giving me an awful feeling. Let him know that I do _not_ want him proceeding until then. That’s an official order.”

By the time O’Brien’s giving him a dramatic salute that turns into a peace-out gesture, Quahog’s already rolling his eyes and slumping back down on the chair, waving the door closed behind the exasperating auror before looking down at the reports, expression grim. 

 

* * *

  

_“Your loyalty to your work and loved ones will be the death of them, Mr. Graves—.”_

There’s a small crack in the glass Graves is holding tightly and he looks down at the brown liquid and sees droplets of red. His anger is in a tight curl of thinly-veiled smoke and daggers, and Graves doesn’t know why every year it escalates to this point of madness.

As Director of Magical Security he needs to be in control. As Director of Magical Security he needs to protect. As Director of Magical Security he needs to do _more_. It’s like a chant in his head every single day, started as mere muttering with its volume increasing until he cannot bear the sound of it.

“You want ‘nother one, pal?”

Graves hums and makes an assenting gesture. A newly filled glass slides into his open palm naturally.

He hates being at this bar. He hates how it’s his favorite haunt. He hates the way people stare with recognition of him as a regular there but someone that doesn’t belong in the old theme of the place. The buzz of an AV system in the background is like needles and pins to his ears, and the non-magical flashing is as much out of place as the young wizards and witches there, dressed in 1920s, 30s, 40s, etc. styles that always seem to be missing something in Grave’s eyes.

Because Graves already feels like a man out of his own time, he dresses as such; in a green Henley with a plain leather jacket and jeans, while the youths talk around him about what they consider authentic old fashion, and the old judge him on his new-era clothes and his un-aging face. He doesn’t understand the popularity of the concept of vintage, but he doesn’t argue. He just sits, stares into his glass, and drinks, hating his reflection, hating the burn of alcohol, _hating_.

_“Worrying is suffering twice, you know.”_

A different voice forces a tight smile on his face before disappearing. It seems that every year the voice gets clearer, stronger, more familiar and closer, until it withers away as the anniversary passes. Graves doesn’t know if it’s helping or hurting, but he wants to hear more. He likes punishing himself that way.

_“Mr. Graves, Sir, here is Mr. Scamander. He has another crazy creature in that case and it got out and caused mayhem—.”_

_“Oh, Honey, you should get that lock fixed up like you said you would.”_

_“Newt, you really are one of a kind, aren’t you?”_

_“As much as any of my creatures, Jacob.”_

_“You’re an interesting man, Mr. Scamander.”_

_“Mr. Scamander, will you do us the honor of serving as MACUSA’s special consultant for magical creatures—?”_

_“Mr. Graves, my book got published!”_

_“Scamander, how many times must I tell you to knock before entering a man’s office?”_

_“Because you’re my friend, Mr. Graves.”_

_“Because I like you, Mr. Graves.”_

_“Newt, it looks like your bowtruckle has taken a liking to my pocket.”_

_“Would you like to accompany me to Hogwarts next month as a guest lecturer on beasts care, Percy?”_

_“My little brother and my best mate…who would have thought? Well, everyone really because you two aren’t exactly the most subtle of creatures and that’s including the Erumpent in Newt’s case—.”_

_“Madam President, I refuse to let Gellert Grindelwald make a fool out of MACUSA twice in a row. This goes far beyond personal. It is my job as an auror to see through this man’s arrest.”_

_“Let us accompany you and Theseus Scamander to Nurmengard, Mr. Graves. We are your aurors, are we not?”_

_“Your loyalty to your work and loved ones will be the death of them, Mr. Graves, not yours; never yours...you I will let live and keep on living. But is it really living, Mr. Graves? Don't we all die just a little?_ ”

_“Newt, please…_ Please _don’t leave me.”_

_“Have I ever told you how bright your eyes are, Percy?”_

_“It has been an honor, Mr. Graves.”_

_“Tina—.”_

_“The fault is not yours alone, Percival. My brother was also mine to protect. And both of us have failed him miserably in this lifetime.”_

_“What have you become, Director Graves?”_

Graves nearly chokes with the overwhelming grief of it all until he remembers where he is, and as a professional he refuses to cause a stir in the damn pub. He instead presses on with an impressive scowl and rewinds the days gone by in his head like a masochist. Rinse and repeat. Because hearing their voices is better than nothing. Through the pain, and through the guilt, _his_ voice is the one that keeps him going. _His_ voice is the one that matters.

Just to get past this day.

Just one day.

Tomorrow is another day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O' Brien is a descendant of one of the original twelve aurors like Graves, but I have a soft spot for that name and have chosen it as a nod to one of my favorite Gramander fic of all time written by an anonymous user. Does anyone know who I'm talking about? ;) But seriously, though, his/ her writing style is amazing and you guys should totally check out "In The Hot Seat" if you haven't already.


	3. Cogs and Wheels

Graves is finishing his third glass of Lamark’s fire whiskey when O’Brien appears before him in a cloud of mist. Or rather he might as well have, given how dark and foggy the bar has become after the live performance of The Whistlers came and went on stage, the jazz and fashion of the band too garish for a 19th century theme of this bar.

The Blind Pig was a criminals-infested speakeasy in the past, but has since turned into a nostalgic gathering place for wizards and witches in remembrance of old times in New York. Criminals and aurors alike are supposed to enter the bar as equals, side-eyeing and glaring notwithstanding. And it’s where Graves can be found some odd days after dark.

O’Brien always knows about those odd days much to Grave’s dismay.

“Hiya, Boss. Lovely seeing you here as ever,” the man chirps, though with a subtle hint of disapproval at the drink in Grave’s hand. The O’Briens’ cheer- and care-giving family trait is comfortable and nerve-wracking all at once, and Graves tamps down the feeling of weariness at the sight and then raises his glass for a particularly passive aggressive gulp.

“You are without a doubt your father’s son,” mutters Graves.

Because it’s like staring at a portrait of the old Henry Grizzle O’Brien, a loyal friend and ex-senior auror of MACUSA, charming in his boisterous laughter, and ever so fond of acting like a mother hen to those he holds dear. He worked with Graves many years ago and now it seems a mischievous version of him has come to haunt Graves.

There’s a flash of grin from the young auror and a reply of “You say the nicest things.”

“It’s not a compliment,” Graves huffs. “What do you want?”

O’Brien drags a stool out from the bar next to him, making sure to be as exaggerated and obnoxious as possible in his movement. His elbow hits a drunk nearby in the process, who just glares and shifts away from the two aurors. Graves huffs at the subtle show of aggressiveness from his employee, the suggestion for everyone to give them privacy clear enough in his seeming clumsiness.

He takes Graves’s glass and downs the last of the whiskey. “ _Sam_ wants to ask you out on a date. A coffee date.”

Graves rolls his eyes. “When?”

“Tomorrow morning,” O’Brien says, not missing a beat. The words exchanged are mundane enough to the pub’s occupants, but the tone has Graves shifting his attention back into work mode immediately. “He wants to get to know you better, and to be honest, to know how you’re doing.”

“Well, tell him I’m fine. Work’s been picking up and my boss is a nosy Doxy but nothing’s ever wrinkle-free,” Graves says with a quick quirk of his lips at the jab. He turns to glance at the door. “I’m handling it well enough. Besides, you know that club we’ve been talking about? I should be able to get us in by tonight actually.”

At this, O’Brien’s eyes widen a smidge, a break in character. “Oh?”

“I’m waiting on a mutual friend of ours. He said that he’ll be meeting us here since a spot’s opened up for the VIP room there.”

“No. Wait,” a cough from O’Brien, and Graves lifts an eyebrow at the shift in the mood. O’Brien straightens up and shrugs, but there’s a tension underneath his shoulders. He sniffs and continues with a sham of a petty tone, “Well, I don’t want to go anymore. I heard it’s a very dingy place for a date if you’re taking Sam there.”

Graves’ eyes narrowed. “Did _Sam_ put you up to this?”

President Quahog, while Graves appreciates the man’s concern, does have a tendency to panic easily, hidden well it may be. He is capable in his position and in many ways reminds Graves of the late President Picquery, in both the well-meaning but firm attitude towards their aurors and the kind of emotional instinct that not many people have. But Quahog is still young in years despite over a decade of experience as the President. And the years he served were of peaceful times compared to the initial surge of dark wizards that Graves and Picquery had to deal with in the past.

The loss that they had to live with…from their own mistakes no less.

_The hubris of us aurors, Percival…the confidence—arrogance!—damn it all to hell._

The voice of an old friend makes him grimace. It’s a bittersweet reminder that spears his heart at the most inopportune but necessary moments.

Theseus Scamander has blamed himself as much as Graves did, punished himself as much if not more. The friendship that started in the First World War and has grown even more when he made his intention for Newt Scamander clear has snapped with such self-destructive force from the two of them spiraling into their own guilt and shame that it seems irreparable. The years that followed had Graves throwing himself into his work and Theseus into a war that he never returned from.

The loss of the older Scamander and Picquery coming out of retirement seem to have pushed him out of whatever limbo he was in and Graves has doubled his efforts in helping Dumbledore finally take down Grindelwald for good. The leniency of the wizard on his old friend had made Graves bristle for many years ( _You’re a fool if you think letting him rot in his god-forsaken fortress is anything but a mercy, Dumbledore_ ) but eventually that anger burned away with Picquery’s insistence for him to see reason and his own mind pleading for closure.

He never feels like he had closure, doesn’t let himself feel it, not completely. But he does know that the rage and fury he thought was motivating him to work harder, be better, were actually eating inside of him all those years and had dulled his blades, made his mind less sharp, unfocused, detrimental to himself and others. Graves refuses to be in that state again.

O’Brien hasn’t answered Graves under all the silence, waiting for Graves to look at him fully first, patient and not wanting to intrude in the Director’s thoughts. When Graves finally gives a blink and a tilt of his head, he simply says. “The President wants you to hold off until you talk to him.”

“We’ve been waiting for months chasing this opportunity,” mutters Graves darkly.

“There is no guarantee that this isn’t a setup,” O’Brien responds, wary. “And that’s not what _I’m_ concerned about. I just think—.”

“There is no guarantee of anything in our line of work, O’ Brien. Patience is a virtue, but inaction in times of need is an action in itself. A useless one—. ”

“Don’t condescend me, Mr. Graves,” O’ Brien hisses. He sees Graves’ brow furrows at the warning and the man stills, looking not much different from a predator that has just been insulted by a small wild something.

O’ Brien doesn’t think that Graves means to intimidate. He has seen how Graves cares for his aurors and the magical denizens of NYC, weirdly subtly and aggressively, but care he does. He also many times in his youth saw his father laughed right at Grave’s death stare and wondered how he lived to see today, and he supposes that the O’Brien family has become more or less immune to the Director’s temperament by now.

The old leather case of creatures that the Director is seen stepping out of sometimes with rolled up sleeves and mussed up hair is also a sight to behold and speaks for itself.   

Still, the dark look Graves is currently giving him works like a charm on his animal side of the brain despite all that O’Brien knows about the man, and he tries not to swallow, feeling a bit fearful though a bit proud at his outburst because _dammit_ the Director needs to hear this before he walks himself into a shallow grave…no pun intended.

“You may be wiser in your years but that does not mean that you can act like a lone Wampus in these situations. I’m sorry to point this out if you haven’t noticed, Sir, but come every December, you go on this hunting spree, often alone, and close down any cases involving dark wizards or beasts-related ones like a man who has something to prove.”

“O’Brien—.”

“The President hasn’t noticed that tiny tidbit of _working alone_ part, or at least not as much as you are doing so, but I’m speaking up now because even I can see that there’s something about this case that is affecting you more particularly than any other before. Throw in the involvement with No-Maj’s technology and their law enforcement and this can turn sideways real quick."

Graves is giving him that death stare now but O’Brien soldiers on.

“Now, I’m not saying you shouldn’t do it, because it’s in everyone’s best interest to have this city safe, but we do not do it alone. We are your aurors, are we not, Mr. Graves?”

“That’s enough, _Goldstein_.”

O’Brien doesn’t know what happened but in his entire rambling Graves’ eyes have remained fixed on him but widened at the last minute before the blurted out statement leaves the man looking a bit mortified and confused before the calm settles back into his face.

“What did you just—?”

“Never you mind that, O’Brien.” Graves lets out a long-suffering sigh, at himself or at his company, O’Brien isn’t sure.  “Just— _Fine_ . I’ll have Wellington and her junior aurors on-call with orders to follow us and back us up if anything were to go _sideways real quick_.”

O’Brien looks like he’s about to argue, but Graves sends him a final look that for all intents and purposes makes it clear that this was the only compromise he was going to make and further push on the subject matter will be stepping over the line.

“And pray tell,” Graves continues, “What is the purpose of trying out your _secret codes_ when conversing if you’re going to end up spilling out every keyword linked to MACUSA and the wizarding community known to man anyway in your spiel?”

At O’Brien’s spluttering and gazing about, Graves huffs and makes a small wave of his hand to take down the silencing spell he has put up since the auror appeared at the bar. For all his intelligence and competence in the field as a senior auror, O’Brien always seem to let his guard down around Graves, something that the older man lectures him about all the time, and though it warms his heart knowing the level of trust his subordinate puts in him, a dark part of him whispers warnings of the past and wants him to train them more, push them to be better, warn them that he’s not a man to be admired or trusted…

…nor a man to die for.

O’Brien finishes rubbing his neck in an almost bashful manner and Graves shakes his head. He needs another drink.

Graves sees O’Brien worrying his lips out of the corner of his eyes and is prepared to counter another speech when the overwhelming scent of Wolfe & Lunar cologne turns his attention to a less than scrupulous newcomer of the pub. He grimaces at the suited man, eyes tracing the Occamy’s scales layered underneath the coat.  

“Mr. Welshly,” Graves nods tersely in acknowledgement.

“Zander, please,” the man corrects then grins with rows of sharp teeth. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Frank.”

Graves wants to hold back a sneer. Zander Welshly is a known merchant in the magical world who sells miscellaneous but rare things that appeal to mostly the younger generation of wizards and witches. His items are often designed and crafted based on the current trends of the No-Maj’s world, from spelled clothing to toys, but what has been growing in popularity lately is his tech, more specifically his magic-infused phone apps.

No-Maj’s devices in the wizarding world are often used more for their trendiness than their practicality, as owls and spelled letters are still considered a respectable tradition to wizard-kind. Many of the main technology like smart phones and tablets have been utilized and integrated into the community as more of an accessory than anything, as there are protective spells on them to limit their capabilities.

The security issues that have followed the rise of these devices were numerous in the initial years, as the electromagnetic waves from the tech have been known to affect the ley lines and certain magical properties of spells and wards, even revealing some villages to groups of No-Majes wandering around the entering sight. It doesn’t help that there are always people who try to exploit these vulnerabilities to benefit them, much like Zander Welshly.

His apps for example have always been regarded as entertaining and, under the eyes of the law, legal, though skirting its fine line, mostly because it takes time for the law to catch up with the surge of all these new inventions. From the harmless imitation app that lets you copy someone’s face onto your own for a couple of minutes (without the nasty effects of a polyjuice potion), to the more incriminating _Open Sesame!_ lock picking app, which is pretty much a permanent version of Alohamora that even forces highly-spelled protective wards to give entry to the user and remember them in the future.

Borderline cases like this always brings Zander into contact with the law, sometimes both magical and non-magical, but he always gets off with the reasoning that his apps are made in fun and jest, and it’s not his fault that kids these days are smart enough to circumvent his protection and change his spells to fit their needs. And can you really fault a young wizard or witch in their learning?

While MACUSA hasn’t been able to find enough dirt on the wizard, who, according to O’Brien’s frankly humorous rendition of the man, likes to say that “he is but a simple shopkeeper wanting to make kids happy by bringing new things into the world that you old wizards and witches will never understand,” Zander most definitely has a hand in some kind of experiments with the more illegal No-Maj’s military tech. In particular, there is a rumor going around about him engineering a Pensieve with a No-Maj machine to not only view the memories but let the controller manipulate memories freely, more so than any memory charm could do, even perhaps reversing an _Obliviate_ spell.

This is the case that Graves has been following for months now to tie to Zander.

But more importantly, Zander Welshly is _not_ who Graves is supposed to meet.

It’s supposed to be a mouse of man named Edgar Meeks who have sworn up and down he’ll have an invitation for Graves (or Frank Simeon, as Graves has introduced himself as such) to visit the lab and “maybe perhaps even have a go at the machine for a small price.”

And even more importantly, Zander Welshly, while he won’t recognize Graves as part of MACUSA because Graves is no more than a shadow inside the Woolworth building these days and he has no parts to play in the public relations of it all, is glaring at O’Brien with a tap of his finger on his trouser as if he’s itching to pull out his wand to curse him right then and there.

“And Mr. O’Brien,” Zander says with a tone too sweet to pass as anything but a promise of violence.  “You’re an old face.”

“Charmed,” O’Brien snarks back.   

He can already feel O’Brien repeating his earlier speech to Graves in his mind about a setup and things going sideways radiating from next to him. Graves pointedly ignores the blatant _I told you so_ look.  

“You two are acquainted with one another?” Graves asks before Zander has the chance to say the exact same question, judging from his wary gaze.

“More intimately than I care to explain,” O’Brien answers, cutting off Zander with more glee than necessary. If it was any other situation, antagonizing the person of interest in a case will result in Graves giving what his senior aurors have coined, _the look_ , but with O’Brien a clearly unwelcome guest and supposedly a stranger to Graves in Zander’s eyes, being as provoking as possible is probably the best bet to not raise any suspicions and have one side take their leave as soon as they can.

Zander smiles at O’Brien’s retort and directs his next statement to Graves, his eyes still on O’Brien the whole time. “At least that’s what Mr. O’Brien likes to think. Frank, unless I have interrupted something between the two of you, would you like a change of scenery? One with less yapping from an overgrown Kneazle?”

“Very creative. I’m hurt beyond repair.” O’Brien says, deadpan, clutching his chest in the most sarcastic of manners. “I’m surprised a Skrewt like you would even deign to visit this small old-fashioned pub.”

Graves internally groans at the overuse of creature references (and somewhat wrongly too) in their banter. If Newt were here, he would have—.

Frowning at the thought, Graves nearly misses the question directed at him.

“ _Frank,_ ” O’Brien drawls, “Wouldn’t you like my company instead of this foolishly dressed man?”

Graves blinks at the suggestion. When it occurs to him that O’Brien is offering a last ditch effort of an out for Graves, he waves a dismissive hand at the man. “Mr. O’Brien, you bought me a drink. And a cheap one at that. Please leave me be and go find your fancy elsewhere.”

“Amongst your young aurors perhaps,” Zander adds helpfully, which is just as well because Graves is directing O’Brien the same thing but for a different reason entirely.

O’Brien doesn’t seem happy, but he gets up nonetheless, gives a tight nod to Graves, a sneer to Zander, and then apparates out immediately.  A team of aurors is going to be assembled in the next 15 minutes and following Grave’s magical trail he will be leaving like bread crumbs by the time they leave this bar.

Zander tsks at the spot O’Brien left. “Not even using the door. How rude.”

“Aurors and the likes,” Graves murmurs in apparent consent. “Always thinking they’re above the laws and proper conducts.”

“Are proper conducts really what you’re looking for tonight, Frank?” Zander grins at him, the hint of flirtation less subtle now that O’Brien is gone and the man more relaxed. Good. Graves forces himself to return a smile.

“I look forward to see you _conduct_ a purely professional tour of your site, Mr. Welshly,” he says, not really willing to play this game. Any sentiment he has for romantic overtures, fake or otherwise, has burned out a long time ago and while he can still act the part for the sake of his job, he rather avoid it if possible.

Zander huffs in amusement at his seriousness, but winks at him “I’ll have you call me by my given name by the end of the night, just you wait.”

Graves highly doubts it. “I’ll have you try.”

 

* * *

 

The lab that Zander brings him to is hidden below the Little Red Lighthouse under George Washington Bridge. The wind bellows as the two men enter the building, Graves looking up at the stairs naturally to observe his surrounding before he hears a tut from the merchant and a humming noise that grows louder with every movement of Zander’s wand. The floor splits out in a spiraling pattern of concrete puzzle pieces before the noise dies down into but a whisper, revealing a hidden passageway leading underground, green glows of lights flickering on along the wall in a show of invitation.

“Impressive,” Graves says with a quirk of an eyebrow, which seems to be what Zander is expecting, as he smiles and ushers him down the stairs, missing the sarcasm faintly laced along Grave’s words.

There are many miscellaneous items strewn about on the shelves and some tuck away in hidden corners that if not for Graves’ training will have gone unnoticed or viewed as simple hardware. All are, from the few quick glances Graves has given while still feigning the average person kind of interest and curiosity, either teetering on the edge of minor felony or very much alarmingly terroristic. Zander has clearly been holding back for the children, keeping all his more expensive toys to share with the adult audience down here.

Graves hums and Zander takes that as a good sign, as he navigates them down the corridor even deeper.

“Forgive me for the slight mess,” Zander says not so humbly, “Though if you’re interested in some of them, we can of course discuss further after.”

They stop in front of a metallic door that slides open with a sizzle of hydraulics to reveal a large open area, a very different view compared to the rest of the lab and very clearly meant to be shown to visitors. In the middle sits a leaning chair with wires, head gears, and the likes attached to a machine off to the side. Numerous electrical wires and medical-looking boxes are on the floor nearby, hooked up to each other.

Everything screams military in grade. But what catches Graves’ eyes is the silver-colored lining along all the equipment, which seems not to only be glimmering but moving, fluid, flowing along the edge of the objects. It swirls out from the wires and into the design of the floor, the walls, as if part of the whole structure of the room. But around the base of the chair is where it pools, going around it in circles, widening in diameter and closing in, not quite alive but almost like it’s breathing in its movements, waiting.

It strikes Graves in its familiarity and it doesn’t take him long to figure out why.

“That,” Graves says with slight astonishment, “is a very large-scale Pensieve.”

If it’s even possible, Zander beams even more at his audience. “Good eye. Fantastic, isn’t it?”

Graves’ lips thin in silent contemplation. The Execution Chamber that’s been used many decades ago in MACUSA had a very similar architecture, and it does not escape Grave’s notice that while the brewing of the black potion that engulfs MACUSA’s death-sentence criminals has the same building blocks of a normal Pensieve, this design in particular has a magical signature attached to it, one that most definitely belongs to a wizard MACUSA has past engagement with, repeatedly.

A breach of security pulls hard at the back of Graves’ mind, along with the shocking memory of a certain redhead telling him—in too good a humor and casual reflection—about the time Grindelwald has sentenced him and one of Grave’s best auror to that very room.

Graves fights off the feeling to pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation and guilt.

“Come, sit,” Zander says and gestures to the chair. Graves stays where he is.

“Excuse me?”

For all his preparation and confidence up to this moment, Graves doesn’t quite understand why suddenly there is a strange churning in his magic that feels like a warning. It comes from deep within like a gut-feeling but with the kind of intensity that raises the hair on the back of his neck.

Zander chuckles. “Getting cold feet? I assure you there is nothing to worry about.”

“I’m merely surprised I would get the honor to at all,” Graves says. “Meeks told me there was slim chance of using the machine, it being only in a prototype stage and such.”

“Mr. Meeks is late on the uptake unfortunately,” Zander replies, with a dismissive wave, “which is why I decided to personally invite you myself. To show you how serious I am about the business we conduct here. Please.”

Zander pulls out the chair a bit further away from the monitor to give Graves more room, and after a couple of moment of consideration Graves steps forward to take a seat, forcing down the uncomfortable tick in his jaw that is reminding him all too much of the times he had dealings with memory spells in the past.

Under proper settings and procedures, there is of course absolutely nothing to worry about. MACUSA has qualified and experienced legilimens, and there are registered Pensieves to be used in many rooms for aurors and wizards from other departments at their own leisure for investigative purposes. Even then, Graves never like the feeling of having someone or something in his mind. No matter how gentle the tendrils of invasion is, it is an invasion all the same.

And here, in a foreign environment with a criminal smirking down at him, Graves isn’t exactly enthused about the whole process, especially when it’s bringing back memories of Grindelwald’s multiple attempts to get past his occlumency walls during his captivity. And that’s enough of that thought, Graves thinks.

Something is pressed firmly at his temple and Graves flinches, glancing to the side to see a woman preparing pads and equipments on the tray nearby. She reaches for him again to the other side of his head and he forces himself to keep still and analyze her movements.

“Tasha is an android I help developed with a firm in California. Quite the charmer this one.” Zander smiles at her before returning to busy himself with the interface of the machine some more. He continues to talk as his left hand types on the screen, his right twirling his wand along to prepare the magical side of the configuration.

“The No-Majes have all the hardware and program in order, but what they lack is, let’s say, a little bit of juice to make her completely humanoid. A small spell here and there to make up for the microprocessing power and fluidity of movement that robots still lack even in this day and age...honestly the things we can do together, wizards and non-wizards.”

The speech is impressive and all in terms of open-mindedness and willingness to cooperate with No-Majes, as liberal as one can get in the eyes of the young, and honestly that’s what makes the man dangerously influential. But Graves knows Zander, so he just waits patiently for the ball to drop as he tries to relax from all the prodding of the android next to him.

“If we can all just see how useful the No-Majes are. I mean they’re so _easy_ to manipulate. Why enslave them when they have already done that themselves with all their ego and fighting and _distractions_ . It’s so strange and entertaining, how far they have progressed with technology, but still so _uncivilized_ when it comes to each other. How they vote for leaders that are so behind in the very scientific facts that made them so successful in the first place. What’s left to do but to just feed them and watch them dance? All these ideas pay for themselves. I honestly don’t understand those boring old wizards that want to rule above them through fear. No, that would limit their capabilities and productivity. It wouldn’t do anyone good.”

Graves takes it all in as much as he can, knowing that every detail counts to put the man away. The report’s going to be hell to write, but that’s a small price to pay for all the incriminating information that Zander is helpfully supplying so easily in his attempt to impress his guest. These kind of monologues used to amuse Graves during the first half of the century with all its similarities that the speakers are oblivious to. It’s the same old song they sing, believing themselves unique and golden as the snitch of Quidditch. All the Grindelwalds and Voldemorts of the magical world, even all the tyrants and rulers the No-Majes have gone through, are all cut from the same piece of cloth, just different in their ugly pattern of pride, and none of them the wiser.

But now...now it just leaves an empty feeling in his heart because do things never change?

“And there we are. Are you ready to give this beauty a whirl?” Zander asks with a tip of his chin, proud. The machine hums around them with magic and electricity harmoniously, at least seemingly so.

“A good time as any, Mr. Welshly,” Graves replies, silently bracing himself for what Zander’s prepared for him. It has been a while since Graves has to fully put up his shields for protection against memory charms and the likes in the field, but the legilimens team still have trouble accessing his mind during the routine testing for aurors, so that fact should provide enough comfort for him if Zander were to take the liberty to wander a bit too far.

It should also makes up for the fact that his aurors are taking a fine time touring the city it seems, but no matter. The deeper he gets with the machine the more he’ll know what it’s capable of, and the more evidence MACUSA will have on Zander.

“Fantastic. Now, let’s start with something simple then,” Zander begins. “How about...something you had for lunch last week?”

No sooner than when Graves merely thinks about the statement that the silver fluid on the floor rises up in front of them and take shape, not as a 2D projection to replay his memory like Graves expects in a normal Pensieve, but as a 3D form of Graves himself grabbing a hot dog from a stand at Central Park. His eyes widen at the sight, and the memory shifts quickly to show him walking, him sitting at the bench, a newspaper in hand. Then he blinks and the fluid drops to the ground in a swirl.

“That still blows me away every time I see it,” mutters Zander, pleased. “A little blurry and short for my liking this time around, but I guess every mind is a bit different in its wavelength. I can adjust that—.”

“It’s fine,” Graves says, maybe a bit too quickly, as Zander reaches for the controls. Clearer resolution and longer and more continuous showings of his memory is the last thing he wants right now with Zander in the room. “Technicalities will just waste time. I rather see what else it can do.”

Zander pauses for minute, considering, but then shrugs and move back next to Graves. “Fair enough. Let’s move on then.”

This...this might pose a problem. With what just happened, it seems that he will have to give his full focus on protecting any memory related to MACUSA, even the most mundane ones. With the average Pensieve, one can still have a semblance of control on what is to be shown. Most of the time it is linked to a person’s feelings and the events that replay will be snapshots of what the mind considers important. His original plan was thus to create a trail in his mind that the machine can follow, and ignore the rest. In this case, what just formed isn’t what Graves wanted at all. The moment he recalled the event Zander mentioned, he felt something rushing to the target and pull from him everything that is linked to the event immediately, forcefully, and left Graves feeling vulnerable and stripped bear. And Mercy Lewis this was just about him having lunch. Only a legilimens can usually pull up that much detail in a memory, and a very good one at that for memories long forgotten.

There is no time for misdirection or shielding in the moment then. If he has anything to protect, he has to do it now.

“How about something you’re working on then? You look like the type who’s married to his work, after all,” Zander grins in jest, but Graves immediately tenses and locks everything down as fast as he can, just in time to feel something slams _hard_ into the walls in his mind. It actually leaves him a bit breathless, as he feels the push intensify, moving around, trying to find a crack where it can slip through. Certain scenes form in front of them, but mostly it’s him pouring over paperwork at home or walking to and fro, nothing specific, but even then it’s too much for Graves’ liking.

Eventually he feels a weight in his mind lift and along with it the fluid’s return to the floor, and Graves can feel his body slowly uncoils from the tension. This is going to be a long night if O’Brien doesn’t show up soon with his damn backup.

Zander looks disappointed, a small confused frown appearing on his face as he checks the monitor. “Huh, really, Frank. I was just joking but wow do you do nothing for fun at all? I didn’t even see one co-worker you might have a thing for.”

“I’m an independent consultant,” Graves breathes out, trying to keep his voice steady. “Removed from all the office drama, fortunately, being my own boss and all.”

“A consultant,” Zander contemplates with a pleased expression. “I can respect a fellow self-starter. It’s a nice business but a lonely one, I expect. Good company is hard to come by when you’re working those hours. Maybe you have a pet of some sort—.”

A sudden scuttling noise has both of them freezing and looking towards Zander’s shoes. A niffler hops back and forth, leaving a trail of silver footprints, before it goes and sits at the center of the room, looking up at them, curious. Its coat is a shine of silver and black, and everytime it moves, drops of Pensieve liquid sputters out.

And that, that isn’t what Graves’s expecting at all. He doesn’t remember anything like that, but he does feel something in his mind searching along the walls and linking things, as if trying to make sense of the lack of information and creating its own to fill out the shape to the best of its ability. What catches Graves off guard however is that there was no push this time. He didn’t feel any forceful or fast motion, only a slithering kind of sensation once or twice, and that’s bad. It seems that the machine has adapted its method due to Graves’ resistance. He tries to reinforce his shields even more at the revelation.

“What an interesting creature you have there, Frank,” Zander chuckles, but Graves’s not listening because more shapes are starting to form, and he doesn’t feel any movement in his mind and he doesn’t know where the tendrils of the machine is currently but it’s clearly going too far and too silently for him to stop it. Panic starts to rise as a familiar leather case pops up from the liquid and the locks make a clicking noise. The case swings open immediately and the niffler, seeing this, makes a run and jumps away from it frantically. Always a little menace, always running away, Graves thinks fondly, even in this situation.

The image of a stampede of magical creatures rushing out of the fully opened case crosses Graves’s mind instantly and his lips are pursed in preparation for the chaos, but nothing comes. Silence drags on, and when Graves tenses at the first sight of color rising from the case, it is not of a Nundu’s dark spiky mane or the Occamy’s bright scales. It does not belong to any creatures at all, but to its past care-taker, and Graves can barely process what is happening in front of him without wanting to cry.

“You little thief, come back here!” Newt Scamander’s voice rings out loud and clear in the room before the rest of his body follows out quickly. His eyes roam about to find the small creature before it lands on Graves firmly, and there’s no way right? If this is supposed to be a mere memory viewer, it is impossible that the pleased crinkling of Newt’s eyes and warm smile is directed at him right this instant.

Graves blinks and sneaks a glance at Zander to see what the man is up to, to see what he needs to protect himself against this time, but the man seems as bewildered as him, gaze focused completely on Newt’s form that is clearly sauntering towards Graves.

“Percy! Did you let him out again?” Newt’s huff of exasperation pulls Graves’s attention right back to him, and Graves doesn’t know how to answer that. He just gapes while Newt continues on in his lecture, ruffling his own hair as if a bit stressed, but fond all the same. “Really, I don’t know how you two get on so well, but I really must insist you stop spoiling him. This is exactly why he doesn’t listen to me anymore.”

“...Sorry,” Graves’s apology slips passed his lips in an accidental and breathless whisper. He is doubtful that this apparition of Newt, no matter how real it looks from the wrinkles of his blue coat and the hint of sweat near his hairline from all his fumbling no doubt, can actually hear him.

But then Newt quirks a smile and shakes his head in response, and Graves swallows as Newt fidgets with himself some more, all the habits and tics of the man familiar and true. Graves can’t help but feel endeared at the sight, his own smile coming easily as well.

“Tina says that she’s running a bit late, but she’ll be joining us soon,” Newt says, looking at his pocketwatch. He snaps it close and glance around some more for the niffler, before sighing, clearly given up. “I know you have wards, but he is going to get out of your office eventually, you know? He always does.”

“Let’s see the little guy try,” Graves says, “Besides, I think the department’s in need for a little spring-cleaning.”

Newt lets out a little shocked gasp at the statement. “You two are horrible influence on each other.”

“Then it’s a good thing we have you,” Graves says back, eyes crinkling with amusement.

The banter is easy to slip back into, the back-and-forth comfortable, nice, and effortless. Graves relishes every small tilt of Newt’s head, the arms that cross in fake exasperation, the sun-kissed skin and evergreen eyes that shine with happiness every time they roll at Graves despite the scolding and lecturing.

With all his attention on Newt, Graves belatedly notices that his surroundings have been changing in small, almost imperceptible, amounts. Bit by bit, objects that aren’t there before seem to pop up around him, skirting along his peripheral vision and merging into the background. They are in Newt’s case, he realizes, and when did they get there? Weren’t they just in his office with the niffler? No, not actually in his office, but somewhere…

He doesn’t remember the walk down the crikety stairs (“This is a hazard, Scamander, fix it!”), nor when Newt has pulled up a wooden stool in front of him to sit because they are now at eye-level. Something isn’t right and there is a ringing in his head that is growing louder, but Graves ignores it because Newt is saying something again and he refuses to miss even a single word.

“Incidentally, Percy, I think Theseus is up to something,” Newt begins with a huff. “He says that he’s only in town due to some convention, but I don’t believe him.”

“Why not?” Graves asks, all else forgotten. If it’s important he’ll remember it soon enough.

Newt hums. “Well, it might have something to do with a letter I sent. It can’t be a coincidence.”

Graves lifts a curious but suspicious eyebrow at him and Newt flushes.

“I think he’s figured out that we’re together.”

“Well,” Graves mutters, “I can’t say that we were trying too hard to keep it a secret.”

“I wasn’t—I mean I didn’t realize, but I guess I never actually told him. There were just so many things happening at once, my book being published for one—thank you by the way for letting me use your office as a sanctuary from my devil of an editor—and then there’s that smuggling ring we had to chase down. And since the whole of MACUSA basically knows by now, I think it just...slipped my mind.” Newt ends his spiel lamely, looking a bit crestfallen, and Graves has to smile sympathetically at the sight. “I don’t want him to feel like I’ve been keeping things from him. Important things, no less.”

“Theseus is a fine auror and an even better friend. It wouldn’t be too surprising that he’s a great brother to you as well and would understand the mishap,” Graves says kindly.

“I have no doubt,” mumbles Newt, and his expression changes to one of thoughtful apprehension, “Caring yes, but petty he is as well. And he’s got a flair for the dramatics.”

“Oh.”

“Oh,” Newt repeats as understanding settles on Grave’s face.

Graves breathes in, and there’s a beat before he asks, “Is there any chance you would like to go to Asia for a small trip? I hear that there is a family of Chinese dragons there whose eggs are about to hatch, and it’s quite the season to be far away from the western continents.”

Newt laughs. It is the kind of sound that makes Graves’s heart sings, as sappy as it is, but Graves stands by it. He hasn’t felt this light in ages, smiling like a young fool even though he is anything but. All the decisions he’s made as an auror, all the pain he suffers and deals out equally to the injustice of the world, even as it keeps coming back at him and he can only weather it with a wariness that cuts deep to the bones some days, it’s all worth fighting for. For it to be a better place. For the lovely smiles and innocent charm of the man in front of him.

"What did I do to deserve you, Newton Artemis Fido Scamander?" Graves says softly, his lover's name passing through his lips like a rare gift to be cherished and treasured.

"You have always been my better half, Percival Graves."

He feels his defenses chipping away with every smirk that Newt sends him. The man is sipping his tea, still with a hint of chuckles along the brim of the cup, and there is contentment in every fiber of Graves’s being. Even his magic thrums within him in excitement and a rush of...worry?

Graves tenses at the sudden incongruity. He hasn’t been focused on it until now, but there is a sharp tension that’s been pulling at him, only until it’s almost boiling with warning and screaming out that things are all wrong that it finally surfaces to the forefront of his mind.

Because this can’t be real.

Graves stares at the scene in front of him. Newt being here so close to him like this, so near that if he sits up and reaches out he can pull the man against him and take in his warmth and breathe in his scent and _never_ ever let go.

This isn’t real.

The instant that thought crosses his mind, the image of Newt flickers, watery for a moment before it solidifies again into a confused-looking Newt. Graves blinks and feels his head twitch to the side, unbidden, as if an electrical pulse has run through him. He frowns at the feeling, which grounds him more to his environment, the chair he’s sitting (strapped) in, the open (cage-like) room…

...the _actual_ person he’s with.

There is a shattering of bright silver glass around him and Newt’s shed and the surrounding biomes start to disappear from his view, liquid oozing down the walls of the Pensieve dome that the machine has formed and enclosed him in, like an egg that casts an internal design based on whatever memory pieces it’s gleaned from Graves’s mind.

Zander is next to him frowning and looking a bit concerned and shocked and frustrated all at once. But before Graves can say anything, he blinks and the man’s gone. In his stead stands the grinning magizoologist and Graves feels the delight rise in him once more, as he lets out a huff and smiles back, the sense of unease and happiness warring at the precipice of his emotions.

His lips freeze up before completing the action, however, because everything is now _off,_ Newt’s own smile a bit too crooked, his eyebrows drawn down to give off a kind of anger that Graves has never before seen on such a familiar face.

“It’s your fault, you know,” Newt’s voice comes out in a croaking static. "You ruin everything. You always do."

Graves stills at the caustic tone. He stares up at the figure sauntering towards him, closer and closer, before leaning right above him looking down with such rage and sadness and _pity_ that has Graves swallowing.

“You poison everything you touch, Percy—A parasite. You take _our_ magic and you live your life like nothing happened. How _dare_ you,” the rambling comes out of Newt’s mouth like a madman, his face twisted in agony. “What gives you the _right_?”

Something is going terribly wrong, and Graves knows it. His body is tensed, his pupils blown so completely dark and it’s hard to blink. The spasms of all the tendons and muscles are caging what feels like his very soul inside. He tries to breathe through it, air coming out in harsh puffs and it’s not enough, not nearly enough. Newt is still looking at him with those inky black eyes and blood now trickling slowly down the edge of his hair line to drop down onto Graves’s trembling face.

“You don’t deserve to be Director. _Merlin,_  you don’t even deserve to be an auror.”

 _Drip_.

“You don’t deserve Tina’s trust, or her life. Nor Queenie’s,” Newt hisses and glares, “Not my brother’s…and sure as hell not mine.”

_Drip._

Graves chokes out a breath, tears brimming at the corner of his eyes though refusing to fall. His fingernails are digging deeply into the chair’s arms, nearing pain.

“What are you still living for, _Percy_?” the sweetly crooned voice comes out from Newt like a whisper of a lover and Graves clenches his teeth down. “Don’t you think you have long overstayed your welcome in this world?”

Gentle fingers trace his face and smear the droplets of blood there slowly to Grave’s lips, as Newt leans in closer.

“Let me help hasten you along now.”

When Graves finally screams out, it is with such anguish and fury that Newt’s smirking form seems to waver before disappearing completely, and there’s Zander right in front of him trying to push away his struggles and his body back down into the chair. Graves shoves at him harshly, eyes still wide and haunted, unseeing. He can feel the electrodes and wires snapping off his body in the wild movements and his instincts are screaming at him to fight, to run, to survive, to _kill_.

The first blurry white figure that steps into Graves’ view is met with a fast hook from the right that knocks it to the ground. Graves feels the crunch of aluminum—a protective helmet, his mind notes quickly—on his knuckles and he whips around to throw a kick to his side, the reflex of a trained auror taking over completely now, but unfettered by morality and humility, just driven purely by the basic urges of a threatened apex predator.

 _Dangerous_ , his mind supplies, _Unhinged_.

 _Like the monster that Newt says you are_.

There’s shouting and the tell-tale crackles of apparitions, but there are also booms of fired shots and bullets whizzing pass him in the mix of hexes and spells. Graves has a gun in his hand and he doesn’t remember when and from whom he’s taken it, but he’s using it deftly without thought while a muffled voice pushes at the back of his mind to stop.

Where is his wand? Why is he not using magic?

 _This feels better_.

A blow connects to his shoulder.

_This hurts more._

Graves returns it twofold.

_It feels right…more permanent._

It isn’t until he’s standing in a sea of bodies that Graves comes back to himself.

The gun clatters to the ground the same time the door bursts open to reveal what Graves assumes are O’Brien ( _“Mercy fucking Lewis gulping gargoyles”_ ) and Wellington’s team of aurors gazing out at the room full of unconscious and dead men.

And what a view the Director must make at the center of it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the second chapter arrives nearly tripling the first in size. I hope that this was worth the longer wait ;) #AllTheAngst indeed.


	4. House Arrest 101

If there’s anything that can be said about President Quahog it’s that he is a fair man. He leads with a firm hand, but he compromises, not so blinded by the concept of justice that he would follow the law so completely. He is not above bending the rules when the consequences of following them will result in more harm than good, and this can create problems in terms of setting standards. For this reason, he sometimes receives a bit of a frowning upon by the magical leaders of other nations, especially ones who still dredges up mistakes of the past made by his predecessors, who see him as more emotionally driven than it is proper. 

Because the president represents all of MACUSA and the American wizarding community past, present and future, he supposes. Because clearly generalizing and finger-pointing have never led to misunderstanding and tension, and most definitely has never led to war. The sarcasm is thick in Quahog’s mind as tired hands spread out the paperwork on the desk. 

Both MACUSA and the Ministry of Magic are under fire a lot these days actually, which makes them a little bit closer than before since misery loves company and all that jazz. Quahog is pretty sure that it all started since the Grindelwald fiasco, and it didn’t help that all eyes were on them at that time, the two main strengths of the world’s magical population, to fix the problem. 

When Grindelwald was finally dealt with, instead of peaceful times following, there was an upsurge of dark wizards and witches instead, gearing up for their own era, motivated by their own egos. Then there was a lull in between these years, upticks and downticks of criminal activities slowly stabilizing out, and then a sort of silence that had people breathing a sigh of relief of things returning to normal. 

This of course didn’t last long, and the chaos and fear that Voldemort stormed in with a couple of decades later when people, muggles and wizards alike, were still mourning loved ones and fallen comrades (because that never really ends, does it?), basically costs both nations the respect of the communities around the world. 

There’s been a lot of building and earning back the trust lost, mainly from the Ministry of Magic since the mentioned situations ended on (and originated from) British soil. MACUSA too isn’t scotch-free, since the United States is always going to be involved in one way or another, but at least things have been quiet after that thanks to a particularly dedicated employee. 

The Director of Magical Security who is supposed to be dead a hundred years ago actually. The very one who has single-handedly flipped the auror department upside down to rebuild it from the ground-up into the very fine system it is today. 

Now, the investigative team shuts down cases almost three times as fast with the precision of a scalpel under the guidance of that man, and it’s no wonder why talks of Percival Graves are often trailed by hushed whispers of dark magic and cursed miracles. 

Things that are too good to be true often gets questioned after awhile. 

And questioned is what Percival Graves is going to be after what’s just happened near George Washington Bridge this evening. 

President Quahog is a fair man, but it does come with the addition of new wrinkles and grey hair and rising blood pressure, as he sighs and goes about to fix this situation. 

“Please tell me how to fix this, Graves,” Quahog mutters with a hint of desperation bordering on sardonic humor.  He’s talking to an empty office, he knows, but if he closes his eyes quickly and tightly enough he can imagine that the afterimage behind the eyelids looks a tad like Graves shrugging at him. A reaction that clearly isn’t helpful or repentant, but one Quahog decides to be more preferable than what he had seen that night when he arrived at the site. 

Through O’Brien’s uneasy recount of the events and the tension simmering in the room of aurors who were there to witness the chaos, President Quahog’s gaze never strayed from the figure still standing at the center of the underground lab. All the clean-up and arrest in the background faded away in a numbed silence the more he stared.

Graves for his part looked wrecked, which is to say, still more put together than most people. But the small sag of his shoulders, the way his eyes sometimes darted over to a corner as if picking up some kind of movement only he can see, all these little nuances of a man haunted, compelled Quahog to stride forward and put himself right in front of the man, as if to act like a barricade between reality and that world unknown. 

He had stood there patiently until his presence was acknowledged, and when Graves’s eyes snapped into focus to meet his, Quahog gave a small, careful smile and said “Well, that’s one way of asking for a vacation.” 

There was a moment of intense fear where Quahog regretted the line, wondered if he had said the wrong thing, but after a beat and a blink from Graves, eyes now wide and clear, the breathless huff of laughter shot like an arrow of relief through Quahog’s heart.

He proceeded to ask for Grave’s wand and identification card, as a responsible president ought to do, and remarked about the Director following up with all proper procedures, before dismissing Graves on his suspension with an authoritatively calm wave of his hand. No one had to catch the way his fist unclenched its worry deep within his coat’s pocket along with the knowledge that his friend is okay, as much as a wounded soldier can be. He caught O’Brien gaze flickering up to meet his at the last minute when he turned around to watch Graves depart gracefully, but Quahog paid it no mind, knowing that it was a secret shared. Both of them, in their high ranking positions, still have an image to uphold for the sake of MACUSA after all. Emotions can’t be easily worn on their sleeves. 

Another long sigh at the memory. 

When President Quahog opens his eyes and looks down, the ebony of the Director’s wand catches the light and reflects back an exhausted looking man, blurred, but even then the sadness is clear in his eyes. Quahog purses his lips at the identification card right next to it, worn and beaten like its owner, even as the photograph of Graves shows a man proud and full of determination. 

It is an impossible expression nowadays.

“For all that you’re good at closing cases,” Quahog says, doleful,  “yours is the only one that is always going to be interminably open, isn’t it, Graves?”

 

* * *

 

For someone who had been exposed to both a former and a much more recent trauma, Graves is acting fairly normal. That is to say, grumpy and sullen and alone in his apartment trying to do work. At least according to O’Brien after his floating green head appeared in the fireplace some odd hour this morning. 

“Just checking in to see how you are doing, boss man,” O’Brien’s mouth had flapped. “And to deliver some news on the department. We are fine. That is all. No need to worry. And most importantly, no need to hide that you’re working. I know you’re not. I know you are  _ trying _ , because I have confiscated all kinds of materials, magical or otherwise, that look like work or can hinder your “convalescence.” Please don’t look at me like that. Just because you’re aging slower than others doesn’t mean you won’t get wrinkles, you know.”

Graves’ eyes narrow even further. “I’m not sick, O’Brien.”

“That’s not what your official report says.”

“You took my whiskey.”

“Those things’ll kill you.”

“ _ I’m _ going to kill you.”

“There’s a reason I only floo my head in, Mr. Graves.”

Then with a solicitous sniff about Graves not appreciating his God-given body and mind and a warning about his “house arrest,” O’Brien’s head disappears in a superfluous puff of smoke and ash. 

Graves has been considering sending multiple howlers to O’Brien for his efforts since then.

Truth be told, Graves can’t blame him, nor can he be angry at anyone but himself. O’Brien, as carefree as he acts, now has to take on Graves’ responsibilities in addition to his duties as a senior auror.  The man can handle himself, surely, but Graves can’t help but feel frustrated about not being able to pull his own weight. 

He knows that he caused the problem for his department and he wants to fix it. He wants to finish up that case; he wants to be right in the thick of it and have his aurors’ back. He wants to be there with President Quahog to tough out the political shitstorm that must be happening right now because of him. He wants to bring down Zander and cease his experiments that can cost thousands of muggles and wizards and witches their lives. 

Graves wants to do many things. And how clear his own wants are when he is left by himself with nothing but his thoughts and worries. No work to distract him. No magic to use outside his apartment with the moratorium placed on him by the President. 

He wants to see Newt.

The thought plagues him more than he can bear. How wrong and dangerous it is to mix this fantasy with all those other wants that are possible. The vision that Zander’s Pensieve showed him was both a dream and a nightmare. Newt looked so sweet, yet so wild. His smile was so kind and then so jagged. The love and rage he saw in that version of Newt had Graves both craving and wanting to shrink away in guilt. 

“You’re not taking care of yourself again, Percy,” Newt would say if he sees Graves now, the nickname fond and exasperated in his voice. Only a handful can call Graves that without a glare sent their way. His mother was one. Theseus Scamander was a close third, only because Graves would always give an annoyed huff at the teasing tone. O’Brien and Quahog say it sparingly as a joke and to pull a reaction. His aurors know better. 

But none says it like Newt. 

Not when it’s an “I love you” and “I forgive you” and “I’m sorry” and everything in between in one word. 

In his haze of self-deprecation and maudlin mood, Graves almost misses a small click coming from the corner of his office. He blinks at the noise before turning towards it to see Newt’s case lying innocently there, nothing seemingly out of place.

Graves squints.

“I see you,” he says, a warning. 

Nothing except silence. 

There’s no doubt in Graves’ mind which creature has snuck out. And with a tired confidence of an adult who has seen nonsense one too many times, he makes a move to rise from his seat. The chair scrapes on the hardwood floor. The second warning.

There’s a beat before a string of shuffling comes from the bookcase, then quick as a flicker of light, a blur of dark fur makes a jump onto the couch and bounces out the open window. Graves watches this all in an impassive kind of horror. 

Right away Graves is pulling on his coat and shoes and rushing out of his apartment, his wards automatically thrown up the moment the door closes behind him.

Leave it to the niffler to run amuck when Graves can’t fully use his powers without alerting O’Brien or the President. The damn wristwatch they have on him  _ is  _ literally like an ankle monitor of a house arrested delinquent that O’Brien keeps alluding to. Sure, he can make small wandless magic and such, but if there is a high enough spike, the damn man is going to think he’s being attacked and comes rushing in to Graves’s aid. 

Or to stop Graves from attacking someone else…

He shakes that thought out of his mind. There’s no point brooding over past mistakes. Best keep moving forward. 

Graves rounds the corner of his building and looks around, walking briskly while keeping an eye out for the little menace. Luckily the cold has thinned down the NYC crowd from its usual size, and the weekend takes care of the rest of the commuters from being out and about in the financial district, leaving only a few stragglers to enjoy their walks and Graves to enjoy his quiet panic.

There were a few close calls and some false alarms with squirrels and rats that had Graves wondering what muggles have been feeding to the latter that made them grow to be such a size, when he finally sees the scuttling bottom of the niffler ascending the steps of a white building and immediately gives chase.

The museum is one of the smaller artful ones that are local to Zucotti park, unlike the MoMA from where tourists flock in and out in the middle of Manhattan, but it is still a very public place. 

A public place that showcases shiny, shiny things, ripe for the taking for small eager paws.

Graves curses under his breath. A small part of him though thinks back to Newt’s recount of his first day in NYC and the incident at the bank and the pastry case swap. Ironic that.

As he moves through the halls and exhibits of the museum, Graves finds himself reminiscing further about that story. Tina had nearly spat out her hot cocoa at the mention of her first encounter with Newt, and quickly added her side of the tale into the mix, glancing ever so apologetically at Graves the whole time as they sat around the campfire. 

It was all very cliche, sharing stories in a circle of five, each of them holding a stick of something Jacob called S’mores and swore up and down about it being a tradition everyone knew and must do. 

Newt, Graves, and Tina had just finished wrapping up a ring of poachers near South Salem with the rest of the auror team when Newt decided to stay a bit longer to care for the affected wildlife and the surrounding area. Somehow it had turned into a camping trip for them, with Graves finishing up his report in Newt’s case and owling it to MACUSA instead. The rest of his team was more than happy to see their boss relax for once, even if it was just for the weekend, and Tina apparated back with Queenie and Jacob to join them after she finished overseeing the junior aurors’ handling of the magical creatures back at Woolworth. 

This had been about two years after Newt and Co. aided in the capture of Grindelwald and recovery of Percival Graves. They found Graves frail but nowhere near broken, patiently chipping away at the magical wards from the other side of his bedroom mirror, still fighting, despite his injuries. 

The healers immediately tended to him and his physical scars healed easily, but it took nearly half a year for Graves to trust again. Even if it didn’t affect his work as he returned to his position as director, he could see the sadness in Picquery’s eyes and his aurors’ downcast gaze every time he smiled his polite and formal smile. 

Because there was nothing to be seen on the other side of that gesture. It was kind but it was tired. Graves had more than once caught the mutterings of his aurors missing his genuine glower that intimidates but full of life (whatever the hell that meant?) but despite his confusion at the words themselves he could understand the simple message from these little conversations around him, and that was they missed him. That they felt guilty. They wanted him back.

Graves hadn’t been sure if he wanted to come back. 

If he even could come back.

Until one day he walked into the conference room and his aurors were running around trying to herd what look like to be a dozen of jumping sheep. His senior aurors were shaking their heads and bossing around/ making fun of their juniors until the creatures ran into them and got them involved. Tina had one of the creatures tucked under each arm. Graves had never seen Seraphina Picquery look so scandalized. 

And in the middle of it all, standing out with his tuffs of untamed red hair and peacock-colored coat was one Newt Scamander apologizing in a stereotypical British manner and rounding the “Mooncalves” back into his case. 

Graves was about to make a comment about this circus scene when he felt his pocket watch being tugged free from its confine and reached out instinctively to grab whatever it was near his leg. Beady eyes stared back at him when Graves raised the pudgy creature to his face to take a closer look. When Graves’ gaze reached the pocket watch, the creature had tried to shuffle it into the already full pouch. Seeing it trying to shove the item in along with the rest of his aurors’ wallets, jewelry, and shiny knick-knacks was ultimately the last straw.

Percival Graves laughed that day. It had been a hearty bellow that eventually turned into a series of wheezing noises he didn’t know he was capable of making; utterly ridiculous and silly.

And suddenly coming back wasn’t all that hard. 

It was a gradual process, but things started to fall into place. Like jigsaw puzzles that fitted easily into their spots, whereas before it was like trying to gather back jagged pieces of glass that didn’t belong together.

There had been hesitant teasing in the beginning from both sides, stumbling, trying to find footing after all the hurt. But the more missions they went on together, the late nights stuck cracking a case, the coffee runs and all the things in between, helped pave the way back to how things were. Graves started to treat his team a little bit more like family, and they were ready to have him back on his own terms. 

And perhaps the small chaos that a certain magizoologist and his creatures brought with them into the ever so stringent MACUSA gave them all a little team-bonding push. Not to mention the weekly disappearance of valuable things and hunting of a niffler somehow had a way of greasing the wheels of interdepartmental friction. Who knew.

Newt Scamander was brought on as a consultant that day when the mooncalves escaped. He had been so much more to Percival ever since.

The rest of Graves’ trip down memory lane is cut short when he sees the tell-tale signs of stuff being stolen. The niffler in its age has gotten better at hiding its tracks, but Graves has seen its shenanigans enough times to be able to follow its little journey down the corridor. He sees it on its tippy-toe trying to reach for an amulet perched in its display. 

“There you are you little—.” Before Graves can finish his cursing, the niffler, as if sensing the impending scolding from its caretaker, gives him a pleading look. Graves knows better than to fall for the impish trick, as the creature starts eyeing the vent nearby. 

Both of them sprint towards their targets, and Graves finally curses out loud when his reaching fingers close around nothing but air. He sighs and brings his hand up to his face to rub the stress lines away. The ventilation shafts clang above him and the rest of the museum-goers merrily.

Graves doesn’t need this right now. In fact, he doesn’t need this ever. He refuses to turn into one of those many “pet owners” that are always chasing after their dogs as passerbys look on in judgement. 

The thought of leaving the niffler behind and simply walking back to his warm apartment briefly crosses his mind. 

But it’s merely out of spite. He would never do it. Not just because of Newt, but because “Niff” was as part of the family as much as any of his aurors at this point. If it hadn’t reach for his pocket watch that day so long ago, Graves might have never come back to himself. 

Not that he’s willing to give it that much of a credit. Merlin knows the old thing already has an ego large enough to fill its bottomless pouch. They had tried multiple times to release it back to the wild, but like Pickett and Dougal, Niff had refused to go. They wander, but they always return. The trio just naturally became the “guardians” of the case, helping Graves take care of other rescues long after they understood that “Mommy” isn’t coming back. It’s as if they knew they have to step up now that Newt was gone.

Graves pinches the bridge of his nose and looks up. There’s a large oil painting in front of him that he hadn’t noticed before in his haste to catch the niffler, but as long as he’s taking this short mental breather he figures he might as well try to appreciate the art while he’s here. 

He has been told by multiple people (read: O’Brien) he needs more color in his life. Maybe if he tells them (read: Samuel Quahog) that he made use of his time off and visited a museum, they would let him come back to work earlier with the belief that Graves is not just puttering away in his home and riling himself up.

The painting itself is impressive in both its range of colors and size. Graves has to step back to take in the sight as a whole. Standing tall and wide reminiscent of the old baroque artworks of Rubens, the hues all blend together seamlessly to create a marvelous picture of something akin to the Garden of Eden. There are multiple animals living together in its own habitat, separated naturally with the play of color shade and perspective. 

His eyes trace the lines of a wolf chasing a rabbit nearby, its tail a long curl of soft colors with the tip flicking up towards the sky where a flock of birds seem to fly happily into the distance. Perched on a large slab of rock, a lion basks in the sun with an eye open to lazily follow a group of...

“Is that a Puffskein of all things?” Graves mutters incredulously at the balls of fluff in the painting. His eyes track along the patches of grass the creatures are romping on before they lock on the next thing and narrow even more. Flying alongside the bouncing beasts are a group of what looks to be pixies or fairies, but what catches his attention is the rainbow-colored insects that are very much identifiable as Billywigs. 

What.

Further inspection of the artwork show even more creatures that are unmistakably part of the magical world.  _ His _ magical world. Not the fictional one that muggles come up with from their own imagination or brief exposure to magical creatures. The detail is too accurate to be accidental, which is a bit alarming, and Graves debates whether to bring this to O’Brien’s attention or give the proverbial fuck you to the President’s orders and investigate it himself. 

It might not be anything. All the wizards and witches worth their salt know not to take liberty with their knowledge even in the abstract form to be shared in the muggle world, especially nowadays where magic are more easily detected and can be misused due to the boom of the digital era. Some muggles are allowed to know about the magical world, families and loved ones, in particular, but while the laws have become more lenient than the past, the wizarding community is still using a best-kept-secret policy when it comes to this issue. Limits still need to be placed. Knowledge can come at a great cost, after all. 

Besides, if Graves looks closely, all the creatures have some features missing or different than the norm, the colors not quite true to their nature, and given that it’s displayed in the museum as a work of fiction people will merely take it as a fantastically drawn art and nothing more. 

But it might be something. 

And Graves’s more than itching for it to be something. 

He’s still in the middle of the great internal debate when a quiet, but curious voice comments from beside him, “Ah, is that what they’re called?”

Graves blinks and looks at the custard-colored fluff again. “What, these furballs?” He pauses, considers, and then against his better judgment continues with “Perhaps...if the snouts were a little bit shorter, I think.”

“Oh yes?”

Looking back, Graves would blame his unwise decision on the insanity of being put on what is essentially a house arrest (dammit, O’Brien.) and the undue stress from not being able to live up to his full potential as a workaholic. But he was in need of a distraction, and Graves might as well entertain this muggle with a few fun but essentially useless facts while he goes over the thoughts in his head. 

As concentrated as he is, Graves just naturally replies, “Eyes are also a little bit too close here…”

“I see,” comes the reply. “How would you know that?”

Graves manages not to roll his eyes. “Because I work with them.”

“Do you now?” 

There is an odd but easy kind of interest in the tone that strikes Graves as familiar, but he pays it no mind, thoughts still in rumination about how to proceed with the case and eyes still intensely boring a hole into the artwork. 

_ Possible _ case, he has to remind himself. As much as he wants to, he can’t just start making up things out of thin air. Actual evidence is needed, not one man’s opinion. He might be bored, but he’s not psychotic. 

“I think that would be up to the artist’s muse, don’t you think?” the voice says, with a hint of a smile.  “But I do agree with you that perhaps this artist took a bit too much liberty with his own imagination on this one.”

Graves huffs, amused at the sure tone of what appears to be a constructive criticism. “And how would you know that?”

“Because I created them, sir.”

The subtle offense Graves hears in the comment is what ultimately shifted his focus towards his unknown companion. But before he can even open his mouth to return something casual and mundane, now that he realizes he had been distracted and unprofessionally lax with his guard, his mind blanks out at the sight before him. 

He  _ is _ psychotic. 

“You—.” Graves sputters. “You...” 

Graves’s brain has finally short circuited, he thinks. And the rest of his body, too. He can’t seem to move, nor say the words that he dearly wishes he could say because what’s standing there is surely a trick his mind is playing with him. 

He opens his mouth to string a more coherent sentence together, only to realize it’s already open. During that time, the man next to him smiles, shy yet mischievous.

“Oh dear, are you gaping at me?” A pause of consideration. Graves says nothing back. There is now a look of concern sent his way. “Perhaps...are you a fan? Not that I’m famous and being presumptuous, but you look like you’ve seen a ghost. I’m not—I mean...well, I write. A novelist. And I’ve met some fans of mine, and everyone behave quite differently, but honestly your reaction must be the most... _ shocking _ so far,” the man teases with a wink, harmless. “I’m Art by the way. And no I’m not the painter, despite my name being what it is.”

An attempt at an innocent joke. The English accent. The rambling of a creative mind. 

“Though, seeing your reaction and you being here in the exhibit and all, you probably already know that…” the man continues, trying to fill in the silence that Graves is just leaving in his wake. “But perhaps you only recognize me by my pen name and not my face. I don’t like my pictures taken for the sake of publicity very much. To the chagrin of my publisher….” 

Ah, he’s trying to comfort Graves. Like one would a spooked animal. The confidence and the wink is new, but everything else is just so….

“Newt,” Graves finally breathes out, a whisper of air, barely there. He still can’t find his voice.

“Sorry?” 

Graves watches in distress as the man lifts an eyebrow at the nickname.

The sight of his confused look has Graves backtracking at once. He didn’t mean to say it out loud, not when he doesn’t have all the facts yet and this could all be a trap laid out by Zander, the only person in this era who has seen Newt’s face from his memories. 

“Sorry,” Graves replies back quickly, trying to compose himself. This isn’t how a Director of Magical Security act. The safety of MACUSA and the wizarding community—.

“Did you just call me Newt?”

_ Shit _ .

“I’m sorry, I must have the wrong person,” Graves says. “Please excuse me.”

“Well, that’s a weird name for someone else to also have,” the man ponders, right as Graves is about to make a move to leave.

“Someone else?” Graves parrots back. He looks at the young man closely. While there’s a level of caution there now that was undoubtedly caused by Graves, the mischief and curiosity are in equal parts brimming in the other man’s eyes.

“Yes, well, I mean I figure my editor probably put that in my bio or something to make me more impressionable? I don’t think it’s having the desired effect she thinks it would...”

Graves manages to keep his face neutral the whole time as this event unfolds before him. It’s damn well impressive.

“That nickname,”  _ Newt _ asks, “is that a common one to have here in the United States?” 

“I wouldn’t say so, no,” Graves replies slowly, carefully. “But what do I know?”

Newt gives an impish smile. “You know of  _ Puffskeins _ apparently. And a whole lot more by the way you were picking apart that poor artist’s work.”

“I consider myself a realist,” Graves says, leading the conversation away to safer grounds. “Don’t have much sense for the abstracts or fictional I suppose, so please don’t mind my comment.” 

“But you were right.”

It’s now Graves’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Those things you said. That is how I have imagined this creature. In my novels,” Newt clarifies with a curious tilt of his head, like he’s trying to figure Graves out. “I didn’t quite have a name for it though. But Puffskein...I like it.”

_ Mercy Lewis, no. _ Graves is not going to be responsible for giving a muggle or this fake android whatever-it-is that looks like Newt information about magical beasts, especially if it’s going to be in such an easily spreadable medium like books. 

“Let’s not get ahead of—” Graves starts to say.

“What kind of work do you do?” 

The passion and curiosity brimming in his eyes is a sight for sore eyes. Graves forgets how enthusiastic and prone to tunnel vision Newt can be when a creature is even mentioned in a conversation. 

“I suppose I work with the government,” Graves hedges. “Boring work really.”

“Oh, but you’re so knowledgeable with animals,” Newt exclaims. “I can tell. You’re very focused when you’re taking in the details and the way you consider every—.”

“That’s quite flattering, but I’m really not—.”

“No need to be humble, sir,” Newt waves him off, mistaking his verbal retreat for professionalism, and Graves purses his lips. “I’ve been watching you take in that painting and the contemplation and attention you give it is awe-inspiring. It was the reason I approach you. And I mean, you didn’t even notice me until I spoke up. You clearly care.”

When has Newt become this talkative with strangers? And Dear Merlin the attitude and confidence. The frustration Graves feels about all this is bittersweet. That seems to be a Scamander trait really.

Did Newt just admit he has been watching him?

Graves sighs, “I...conduct investigations. Research and develop policies and regulations to ensure safety...for the population. Working with creatures was a job I unwittingly inherited from a...coworker of mine. Before I knew it, I just…started to want others to see what I see as well...like how he made me see.”

There is no need for him to tell the truth. A lie is easier, Graves thinks.  _ Should _ be easier. But showing a part of himself to Newt has always been second nature to him. He can hide the subject specificity behind vague words, sure, it comes with the job. But to hide his feelings from the man is like a kind of self-denial with a side of third-party guilt. Like how just the thought of kicking a puppy makes you feel bad even when you would never perform the action in reality. 

“Understanding each other, animals included, is the foundation of changes,” Graves continues. “I work out in the field...anyway, it’s somewhat hard to explain...how I’m making changes...”

Graves’s words trail off as he catches himself saying more than he should. It’s like Graves himself is starting to realize how much he doesn’t belong anywhere anymore. These thoughts plague him but only in the back of his mind, with only fire whiskey being able to bring it to the forefront all those times at The Blind Pig. 

He doesn’t have the luxury for self-pity in his line of work. But voicing this out loud now, and in front of Newt no less, is making things a bit more true, a bit more present. And really, what kind of changes is he making? What is he doing? He used to be so sure of himself. Now he just feels like he’s carrying on just to keep the flame of his old beliefs going. 

And for who?

There’s a heavy silence that follow, as Newt tips his head to the side in thought. Then he simply says, “Are you a zoologist perhaps?”

Graves blinks, but is relief by the simplicity of the question. He stares at Newt, sees the concern there, but the tact to not overindulge in his questions, and Graves appreciates the man for his show of respect, even if Newt doesn’t fully understand Graves’s shame in his sudden bout of sentimentality. 

He wouldn’t know how he would handle Newt’s kindness right now if it were freely and thoughtfully given like in the past. So Graves just answers, “Yes, I suppose I can be considered one.”

Immediately, Newt is smiling brightly again, and Graves sees him about to launch into another passionate speech or strings of compliments when a booming shout comes from the exhibit’s entrance.

“Artemis!”

They both turn to see a burly and red-faced looking man, sweating profusely as if he had been running a marathon before his appearance, comes marching towards them. Graves is decidedly confused, though not threatened as the man seems more panicked than angry, and simply refers to Newt to handle what appears to be his acquaintance. 

“Mr. Burlington!” Newt exclaims in a shocked whisper, as if some kind of appalling secret has been released. “I told you about that in an act of solidarity. Does that mean nothing?”

He gives Graves a quick look of embarrassment. 

Graves isn’t quite sure what—.

“Then you shouldn’t act like your namesake,  _ Artemis _ , and run off from your book signing to go frolic somewhere,” Burlington huffs out as he reaches them. “Quickly now, Lily is quite crossed with you, and you know that I can’t do anything when she gets like that.”

“You’re her father, Mr. Burlington,” Newt says and squints at him.

“She is your commissioning editor,” Burlington returns. “That trumps any parental authority, especially when she’s on the hunt.” 

Both of them seem to shiver when they heard a clacking of high heels in the distance, as if to emphasize Burlington’s point.

“Now come along,” the great big man says, and reaches towards Newt to tug him away with him. 

Newt gracefully sidesteps the hand and shakes his head. “Not just yet.” He looks at Graves. “I’ll follow after I finish my business with this man here.”

Burlington finally seems to notice that they were not alone and glances at Graves. He takes a minute to size him in as Graves projects out the most casual air of confidence in return, nodding his head in mutual acknowledgement. Whatever Burlington sees, it’s clear he believe it’s easier to give in to Newt’s passive demand than to argue the point further (a wise decision, Graves notes emphatically), so he simply gives Graves a quick “nice to meet you” and then turns back towards the entrance to leave in a whirlwind as quickly as he came, with the promise to “hold off the she-witch as long as he can.”

“Sorry about that,” Newt says after the man disappears round the corner.

“No problem at all,” Graves says, “Artemis.”

Newt stares at him. Graves smirks.

“I see no harm in it. It is a good name,” Graves explains. Because it is absolutely ridiculous that this is what Newt has been embarrassed about in front of him. 

“Not when it’s often used for teasing it’s not,” Newt mutters.

Despite the shenanigans that occurred and Newt’s discomfort, Graves finds himself charmed. “It fits you.”

Newt looks away, but not before Graves sees a hint of pink on his cheek, and clears his throat. “How would you even know?”

“I know many things apparently,” Graves repeats Newt’s previous words back to him. “I know enough of what I saw. That you care about animals and your creations deeply. It’s the world to you. Isn’t that what the Goddess Artemis stand for? A protector of all things wild and free?”

Graves then smile warmly when Newt glances back. The old shyness is familiar, even the snark from before when Graves was lamely staring at him in shock. Everything screams Newt and Graves loses all suspicion of the man right then and there, even if he still cannot explain how this version of Newt came to be. 

“Besides” Graves says and shrugs, “What kind of name is  _ Newt _ ?”

An offended huff is the only warning Graves receives before he gets a small playful smack to the arm for his efforts.

“Yes, well, I grew up liking animals of all kinds and that was the first thing my brother saw me playing with as a child I suppose,” Newt gives a sigh. “Anyway, I don’t mind it, but it still takes me by surprise when someone other than him calls me that. Dammit, Thes.” 

_ Thes— . _

Graves tenses. “I’m sorry, what?”

“My brother,” Newt repeats. “Thomas.” Then he leans towards Graves in a conspiratory way and whispers, “And yes, Art is actually from Artemis and not Arthur like one would think, but he’s actually Theseus, so I suppose our parents have a pretty  _ greek  _ sense of humor, yes?” 

That was a joke, and Graves should really give a chuckle or at least an exasperated sigh at the pun because he wants to see that contented smile light up Newt’s face again and again. But the most he could manage is a mechanical quirk of his lips to the side because his brain can only handle so much overwhelming information in one unexpected meeting. 

The mention of Theseus Scamander on any good day would put Graves in a “what did he do now” flight or fight mode, but that was in the past. What with that certain war hero and Percival Graves’s best mate thought to be dead and all, Graves thinks that he is allowed to give himself a break from proper social conduct this one time and just blatantly stare at Newt again. 

Because one miracle is already one too many. But two….

Newt doesn’t seem to notice Graves’s frozen posture, however, especially when the museum’s intercom suddenly comes on and proceeds to say in a hesitant voice, “Umm...M-Mr. Arthur Smith, please report to your guardians at the Sahara Exhibit. I repeat, Mr. Art—o-oh, Ma’am, you can’t—! ARTEMIS SMITH! SAHARA! NOW!”

A loud static ends the announcement with a sort of finality that quiets the whole building.

“Oh my,” Newt mutters. “That seems to be my cue.”

Graves wonders if this is real life, as he watches other museum goers whisper anxiously at each other about that nonsense. Through all this, Newt continues to talk, unfazed, though a bit more rushed now, and jots down something on a scrap of paper quickly. 

“It’s actually the other reason I’m here in NYC. He’s working as an ambassador for England in the U.N. and since their convention is happening nearby, I figure I can catch up with him. Haven’t seen him in awhile since we both travel quite a bit.” 

A piece of paper is pushed gently into Graves’ pockets, and Newt gives it a pat. “There you go. You have my number. I hope you would consider continuing our discussions. It would be a great help and this way you can make sure that my ideas are up to your  _ realistic _ animal standards.” 

And with a wink and a final wave, Newt rushes away, and Graves is left to stare in his direction long after the retreating back has faded away into the crowd. 

Something pulls at his pants’ leg and Graves looks down. 

Niff is staring back up at him with a complacent look on its face, proudly rubbing its bulging pouch. 

Graves can’t find it in himself to do anything about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O'Brien has been sipping on all the expensive whiskey from Graves's apartment as he waited for this update. 
> 
> A wild Newt has appeared! Finally! Hope you all enjoyed the shenanigans in this chapter. I'll see you in the next.


End file.
